


Reward

by ColdReign



Series: For Better [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Canon Compliant, Current Events, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mentioned Terry Milkovich, Some Humor, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25226956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdReign/pseuds/ColdReign
Summary: Summary:Mickey is living his happy ending. It’s unsettling. And there are so many Gallaghers. Just so, so many.“Tomorrow I’ll make you a real breakfast.”“You knocking my peanut butter toast skills?”“Pop-Tart. Better than Pop-Tart.”“Ok, tough guy. Tomorrow you’ll conquer the world.”Canon compliant to the end of season 10.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: For Better [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827604
Comments: 74
Kudos: 383





	Reward

**Author's Note:**

> I have struggled to place Ian and Mickey’s wedding in time, and while I think the show thought of it as mid-November, it was light out when they left the Polish Doll, and I have stuff I want to talk about, so for my purposes I’m going to say it was late October.

**TWO MONTHS**

Christmas was becoming a whole thing. First, it was a brutal time of year to be working in retail. Since Mickey’s family aggressively didn’t celebrate, he’d mostly missed the December Mall experience until this year. It had taught him two things: The first, was that it made sense to hire an ex-con to deal with these fucking meatheads. The second was that it was a really bad idea to hire someone as “prone to murder” as he was to deal with these fucking meatheads. So it was day in, day out being tested to his limits. Every shift that ended with his parole intact was a triumph, and he just wasn’t thinking much about the fact that all this madness was going to eventually add up to his having to celebrate Christmas with an actual family and shit. 

But then Ian starting talking about it. Telling him stuff like it was important information he’d need. Thanksgiving had been a bit of a bust by Gallagher standards, but this time, Ian was off work and the family were planning on doing it up. The siblings had agreed that they were only buying for the kids, but this meant that Mickey kept being sent on errands since he is “at the mall already” to hunt down toys, books, games and clothing. Then he comes home and Ian will want him to help set the tree up, or put up lights, or put his finger on a fucking piece of ribbon so that someone can tie a bow. This shit is exhausting. 

Ian doesn’t talk about how they’re celebrating as a couple until one night when it’s late, and Mickey’s had a couple of beers, and the house is quiet. They’re in the kitchen and the damn lights are up and the tree is lit, and Ian has Mickey held tight against him in a crushing hug. They’ve been kissing a little, and swaying together, even though there’s no music, and Ian has just started to lay soft, tantalizing kisses along Mickey’s neck. 

“So. Do you want to exchange presents?”

What the fuuuuuck. 

“You wanna talk about this now?” 

Ian gives him an extra squeeze, and blows his hot, hot breath right behind Mickey’s ear. “Why not?” 

“Because this is manipulative as fuck. You know I don’t want to fight.” 

“Not a fight. Just yes or no.” Ian shifts so that he can attend to the other side of Mickey’s neck, and it feels so good that he lets his head drop back and his eyes close. “I wanna see if I can make it good for you. Start our own traditions. All that shit.” 

Mickey shivers. When did he start to find sweetness so fucking hot? 

“Yeah,” he nearly pants his agreement and is rewarded by Ian pushing him up against the fridge. “Sure. Why the fuck not?” 

It’s basic to be the guy with the shitty childhood who hates Christmas, but that’s exactly who Mickey is. Ian’s got some of the same thing going on, though, and he’s not completely closed off to the idea of NOT hating Christmas. Kinda like he was pretty staunchly anti-marriage before the idea of marrying Ian floated in front of his eyes. So, ok. He can give this a try. But he’s not being fucking tricked. He’s not saying yes because his dick is hard.

But it probably makes it easier. 

Christmas Eve, works right up to close. By the time he takes the L halfway across the city, it’s 7:00 and the party’s already started. There’s pizza and beer. Kev and V are over with the twins and the kids are watching The Grinch Who Stole Christmas in the living room. Sandy greets him warmly as he comes in the back door, clearly feeling no pain. Ian’s still mostly in his work uniform — the new one. The one Mickey thinks is sexy as hell. It doesn’t take much convincing from the Gallaghers for him to join in. Ian and Debbie are trying to get shit together for breakfast, making some casserole thing they’ll just be able to put in the oven in the morning. Sandy makes him cut vegetables for the same sort of purpose. Around eight, Kev reads the kids _T'was the Night Before Christmas_ before he and V pack up and leave, with every intention of being back for dinner the next day. Once Franny is down and Liam agrees to at least pretend to go to bed, Mickey helps Ian and Debbie set up Santa in the living room, while Sandy sits on the couch and makes sarcastic comments. After a bit, they all start to trade war stories, but in that way you do when you’re around people who can compete in the Terrible Parents Olympics—making jokes, trying to one-up each other and laughing hard at some of the truly insane shit they’ve all been through. The all avoid the stories that involve blood and no one says what’s fucking obvious: That if they were playing for real, Mickey would win. By a landslide. 

He feels a little out of place Christmas day—or expects to—but it’s mellow and nice and nothing really happens. Franny’s excitement is kinda fun to watch and he spends most of the day either helping put together her new toys, half-watching the movies that are running on the TV, or helping out in the kitchen. The breakfast casserole thing is pretty good and they make a solid dinner that’s a team effort. Liam makes dessert and is proud as fuck about it. 

After the kids are in bed, he and Ian go for a walk and smoke a joint together. The neighbourhood is quiet and it’s not that cold, so they just wander and talk, like they haven’t had a decade to already tell each other everything. Mickey tells Ian about Ukrainian Christmas, and how it gave his father two opportunities to suck. They sing increasingly bad Christmas songs to each other. When they pass under the L, Ian pulls Mickey over to one of the supports, and they kiss like they fucking invented it. By the time they get home, it’s late and the house is quiet. They navigate the shit that is still strewn around the living room and Ian turns off the tree, turns off all the Christmas lights so they’re alone in the dark. Mickey can’t believe he can STILL get a little weak just off a look Ian gives him, even one that he can’t really fucking see. But Ian looks just like Mickey expects him to when crosses the room into the pool of light coming from the kitchen. He pulls Mickey into him again and gives him a sweet, soft kiss. 

“We didn’t give each other our presents yet.” 

“Is that a euphemism?”

“Mmm. Can be. But it’s also literal. Thought we talked about that.” 

Yep. And Mickey has a present for Ian because he’s not a fucking punk. He just feels incredibly unsure about it. It’s just not something he’s used to. Or good at. They haven’t done this before. They never celebrate anniversaries, or Christmas, or even birthdays, really. If they did, it was more of a split-a-six-pack-and-fuck situation. And they didn’t always save that for special occasions, either. 

“Don’t expect much,” he warns, and Ian is a bastard so he just beams back at him like he’s expecting a fucking miracle. 

Upstairs in their room, by the light of a single desk lamp, Ian opens his present. Whether he’s faking it or not, he’s happy. It’s just a replacement for his running shoes, which are beat to shit, but Ian would still have probably run in them through the winter, because the Gallaghers wear things the fuck out. 

Ian gives Mickey a watch, since he can’t have his phone on him at work—and then two pairs of flannel PJ pants and a Bon Jovi t-shirt, because Ian Gallagher is a soft bitch, now and forever. _He hopes._ Of everything in that box, the PJs are the thing he cares about least. Ian explains them by saying that the house can get pretty cold at night in the winter. He turns out to be super fucking right about that one and the pants, both pairs, will become one of Mickey’s most treasured possessions. And sure, when the world starts to fall apart and the mall closes, and everyone goes into their homes for weeks on end, they’re useful. They’re warm, they’re comfortable, but mostly they are a constant reminder that Ian is there. Thinking about him. Taking care of him. 

God, he is so stupidly happy. 

***

**SEVEN MONTHS**

Mickey wakes up anxious. 

And fuck that, really. He hates waking up to feelings already in progress. He hates having to figure out where they came from. He hates having to remember what it is he has to worry about. 

He opens his eyes anyway and glances towards the window. The sky is still orange, the sun barely present. Ian is lying on his stomach next to him, head turned away, one hand tucked under his pillow. The anxiety pulls hard in Mickey’s gut, helpfully indicating the source of his unease, as if it wasn’t obvious already. Gallagher. Every fucking time. 

He slides closer to him, anyway. Trying not to disturb, but wanting the reassurance that comes with touch, Mickey lightly puts a hand around Ian’s wrist. He lets his finger tips rest along the cool, delicate skin right below Ian’s palm. He can feel a faint, steady pulse. It helps. He closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep. 

When the alarm for the meds goes off at eight, Mickey finds that he was successful. He squeezes Ian’s wrist, reflexively. It’s something he’s gotten used to in the minutes when they’re first waking up. Part of finding themselves in space and time—reaching out to touch each other, ensure they’re both still there. 

This morning, though, Ian doesn’t return the gesture. He doesn’t move at all. By the time the phone has gone through three repetitions of its rising and falling chimes, Mickey is swearing under his breath and reaching across his husband’s prone body to kill the noise himself. In the resulting silenced, he drops down on to Ian’s back. Presses his face into the warm space between shoulder blades and takes a moment to let himself be lulled by Ian’s steady breathing. When Ian still doesn’t move, he nudges him with his chin. 

“You alive?” 

“Mmm.” 

“Need more time?” 

Ian says something into his pillow. 

“Ok,” Mickey sighs, heavily. “I’ll take the first shower.” 

He maybe wants to stay in bed, but he also isn’t fucking around today. Ian has been working steadily longer hours as this whole thing has stretched on, and when he is home, he’s either asleep or trying to hold the house together. The Gallaghers had split up back at the beginning of this whole thing, with Lip and Tami taking Liam with them down the street. They were still in close contact, but everyone agreed Lip was the best person to handle the distance learning. This left Ian as the oldest Gallagher in the house, and Mickey could see the strain starting to show. Debbie and Carl were used to having people to lean on and when Ian was there, he is trying to take the lead—make meal plans, do laundry, clean the house. Mickey tries to fill gaps as best he could, but he isn’t fluent in Gallagher, and growing up in the Milkovich house means his solutions to problems often leaves Ian’s family gaping at him. 

Ok, not Carl, so much. But Debbie could be a hell of a drama queen.

He can hear the TV downstairs as he starts the shower, so he knows other people are up. He tries to ignore it and just focus on what’s in front of him. He can feel his mind pulling at him. Wanting to brood. He’s not _upset_ about last night. He was mad in the moment, sure, but by the time he and Ian made it to bed, he was mostly feeling warm and a bit awed at some of what Ian had said to him. It was good to hear, but he really fucking hopes that was it for the heavy stuff. 

He can’t help but run through it, though, as he leathers up. He knows the situation is fucked, but he had no idea Ian was _that_ freaked out. He’d known he was exhausted and quiet, but Mickey had been focusing hard on those four days off, thinking Ian just needed a break. He’d counted down to them the way Franny had counted down to Christmas. Planning the whole-lot-of-nothing he and Ian could do together. This is maybe why he flipped the fuck out when Ian brought up self-isolation. Right now, people are living for anything that makes today different from yesterday. Mickey had been fucking _daydreaming_ about getting to see Ian for more than a few conscious minutes at a time. It stung like hell to think Ian wanted to spend it alone. It still kinda does, as much as he gets that Ian ultimately wants to keep him safe. That just isn’t how Mickey’s brain works. When there's a problem to solve, it doesn’t fucking occur to him to separate himself from Ian. They are _together._ He has no interest in changing that just to avoid a virus.

He keeps his shower quick, but thorough. Tells himself he isn’t hurrying, he’s just being efficient. He shaves with determined meticulousness. Allows himself to fuss with his hair a little so that the over-long strands fall in a way he hopes is appealing. Satisfied, he pulls his t-shirt and PJ pants back on and strolls back to the bedroom with purpose. He refuses to rush. 

Ian hasn’t moved. _Fuck._

Most days, this is a problem he’d solve, successfully, by hitting Ian over the head with a pillow. This morning, he approaches the bed like it contains an easily startled fawn. Slides carefully alongside his husband’s body and gently runs a hand along his bare arm, then presses a kiss to the back of his neck. Ian’s eyes flicker open for a half second. Just long enough to register Mickey’s existence. 

“Hey.” 

“Mumph.” It sounds even less encouraging than he did the first time. 

“I’m gonna bring you something to eat, ok?” 

Ian nods and tries, unsuccessfully, to lift an arm. It’s possible he’s trying to make some kind of affectionate gesture, but it plays more like Frankenstein’s monster reaching for a young maiden’s throat. 

“Save your strength,” Mickey murmurs, patting his hand. “I’ll be back.” 

“Hmm.” 

He decides to take that as agreement. 

***

**ONE MONTH**

Thanksgiving is the first big holiday after they get married. Mickey is already thinking of it as the day before Black Friday, when he’s going to have his fucking hands full. He cannot wrap his mind around what the clientele is going to be, though. Who the fuck is champing at the bit to hit up Old Army on the worst shopping day of the year? Are they seriously going to have to deal with stampedes over BOGO tees and tights? 

The idea disgusts him, but he’s probably just cranky about life in general. They haven't even been married a month and shit has been unrelenting. Ian has a new job, had to go through a meds adjustment, and Mickey’s Dad is only barely in jail. They’re talking about trying him for _hate_ crimes, and Mickey has to admit, Terry left an impressive trail of destruction across south side, most of it spelling out exactly what he was so fucking upset about. 

Mickey’s relieved about the arrest, primarily because it was stressing Ian out pretty bad. But shit, they are barely married and all this has happened in a few fucking weeks. And now Ian is working Thanksgiving because he’s new, and because he’s in no position to ask for anything. So their first major holiday as a married couple, they aren't going to be together. Mickey cares a lot less about that than he cares about Ian having that haunted _“I’m failing”_ look in his eyes the last few days, though. 

What Mickey would like is for Ian to stop being so god damn hard on himself about shit that is completely out of his control, but the chance of that changing is about nil. The epic stress produced by getting married, nearly getting murdered three times, and then getting your sorta dream job (scaled for whatever is even fucking possible when you’re a convicted felon) dangled in front of you all at the same time had knocked Ian off balance. And while this seems pretty fucking reasonable to Mickey, Gallagher is not one to measure himself by the standard he’d expect from anyone else 

It’s fucking annoying, but it’s also something Mickey knows he can neither logic nor bully Ian out of, so instead, when asks him to join him on a run Wednesday night, Mickey agrees to go. Exercise sometimes interrupts whatever is going on with Ian’s moods, and he’s been agitating for Mickey to come with him ever since his cast came off, ten days after their wedding. And it's not like Mickey can’t run. He’s just more of a sprinter, who has never really seen the appeal of running when no one is chasing you. 

But he does it and Ian goes easy on him. And is even kinda cheerful by the end of it. He’s happy and affectionate when they get back to the house, laughing at Mickey’s grousing, pressing a quick kiss to his temple when he hands off a glass of water. Mickey can’t entirely track where the shift came from, so he tosses out a little “you starting to feel better?” 

Ian just shrugs and says, “Thanks for coming with me. It was fun.” 

_Was it?_

The better mood sticks around, though, and the next morning Ian pulls on the crisp, white shirt with the badges sewn onto the shoulders in much the same way Mickey had once watched him put on his dress uniform. He’s gone pretty early and Mickey is left to ride out Thanksgiving with his in-laws. 

Well, in-laws, plus Sandy, who is apparently Debbie’s girlfriend now. There’s some epic drama going on with a rich teenager, but Mickey is giving it wide berth. He has got his own damn problems. He wanders downstairs into some unspoken tension around 10. Makes everyone pancakes because he’s the only one who doesn’t seem upset about something, and then ends up entertaining Franny in the backyard for a bit. 

The day isn't too remarkable, but he can tell it’s weird for the Gallaghers. Kevin and V usually join them, but they're with V’s mom this year. Lip, still digging out from under a mountain of shit with Tami’s family, has agreed to spend the whole day with the Tamiettis. So that leaves Debbie, Carl and Liam stuck with two Milkoviches, and making do with a Costco lasagna, a loaf of garlic bread and a giant caesar in a bag. 

Mickey finally diagnoses the weird energy in the house as the younger siblings missing Fiona, and struggling to make up for the unifying vision she usually brought to the holidays. But for Mickey, whose holidays were marked by bruises and bloodshed, if they were marked by anything, this isn’t bad at all. He can't get into football to save his fucking life, but he and Sandy hang out a bit. Debbie and Carl are both easy enough to be around. Liam is about as chill a kid as there is, and pretty easy to entertain. Then, around eight, Ian comes home carrying a Patty Labelle Pumpkin Pie. Mickey insists that everyone sit and wait while Ian eats the plate they’d put aside for him, which he does leaning against the counter while telling stories about the crazy shit that went down on Thanksgiving Day in the Greater Chicagoland Area. 

Sitting around the kitchen table, nursing a last beer as they all take down the pie in one sitting, Mickey finds himself uncommonly relaxed. Maybe it’s starting to sink in. The wedding is over. His dad is heading back to prison. And Ian seems happy in a way that’s only foreign because it’s been awhile since they could fucking breath. When Ian slings his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, and then leaned over and started nuzzling his neck, it feels fucking normal. He doesn't even given it much thought until Debbie and Carl groan for them to get a room. 

“That’s the plan,” Ian shoots back, getting to his feet and pulling Mickey up after him. “See ya, suckers.”

Mickey grins as Ian herds him upstairs to their room. He’s almost giddy once they get through the door, expecting Ian to be on him instantly. And he does kiss him, sweetly, smiling the whole time. But when Mickey drops down onto their bed, Ian doesn’t follow. Instead Mickey ends up lying on his back, watching Ian talk animatedly, as he hangs up his uniform. He is warm and chatty and upbeat in a very _Ian_ sort of way. But once he’s stripped out of his work clothes, he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and Mickey is just very confused. 

“What’s up with you?” He asks as Ian crawls up the bed, his mood nothing short of cheerful. He flops down on his stomach beside Mickey and cocks his head.

“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t know. Kinda thought you were into something else.” 

“I’m always into you,” Ian says lightly and makes the point by leaning over and giving Mickey a kiss. But it’s light and quick and… well, it’s fucking chaste, is what it is. “So how did the day go?”

“What?” 

“Your day. How was it?” 

There’s nothing else to do but answer the question. So he starts to tell Ian about what it was like to spend Thanksgiving with his in-laws. It stops being weird pretty fast, as they start to laugh and give each other shit, like they always do. Forty-five minutes later, Mickey’s light buzz is gone, but he’s feeling super relaxed when Ian finally, finally, reaches over and starts to play with the buttons on Mickey’s shirt. Mickey has never been one for a slow burn, but now that they’re out of prison and they have a lot more privacy, he’s started to enjoy just letting Ian do his thing like this. He watches him fiddle with the button resting in the middle of his chest, trace the outline with his index finger then, look up to meet Mickey’s gaze before popping it open. 

Mickey’s breathing has already turned shallow when he asks, “You got any more fucking questions for me?” 

“Don’t think so, no.” 

He manages to play it cool for another couple of buttons, Ian similarly in no real hurry, and sexy as fuck. And Mickey fucking loves all of this, to be completely honest. The fact that Ian wanted him alone just to _be_ with him is a revelation. It makes him feel important and missed and like Ian is honestly excited to come home to him. 

And that shit is _validating_. All the years they were apart, Mickey had never felt “over it”. In prison, plotting his escape, he had let himself fantasize about seeing Ian again just as a way to get through it. He imagined everything from mean-spirited disinterest to desperate relief on Ian’s part. He’d been pretty happy with what he got—An Ian he recognized. One that showed up, even if he said he shouldn’t have. One who wanted him. Passionately. One who got into the car. But when he passed into Mexico, still able to feel the way Ian had held his face in his hands, he was determined to be done with it. The book was fucking closed.

He understood why Ian had stopped at the border, as much as he’d wanted to convince himself that he wasn’t going to. It made it harder to hate him, but he decided he wasn’t going to dwell on that shit. He wasn’t going to comfort himself with the fact that Ian had gone 99% of the way. That he’d given him all his savings. That he loves him and he wants him to be safe. Nope. Fuck that. Ian left. That was the part that mattered. Now maybe Mickey could finally stop missing him. He’d have less time think about it now that he wasn’t in fucking prison. And now that it was really over, maybe he’d fall out of love, the way everyone said you did. Maybe time would heal all wounds. Maybe he’d move on. Just a little bit. 

None of that happened. When he let himself think about Ian, mostly when he’d been drinking, all he felt was horrible, desperate _want_. In some ways, the longing was worse because there were so many other things attached to it. Chicago. His few not-shitty family members. Just the freedom that came with having someone you didn’t have to hide anything from. He’d had to keep his guard up every bit as much in Mexico has he did in prison. There had been some semi-steady hook-ups and shit, but no one like Ian. No one he could laugh with. No one who looked at him like he was anything special. 

So he’d missed Ian, whether he’d wanted to or not. Enough to give up every single thing he had and go back into custody, because he couldn’t stand the thought of Ian in prison without someone there to protect him. And, two years later, he had to admit it had worked out for him. He’d come home. He got his boyfriend back. He got out of prison in less time than he’d ever have dreamed possible. And now he was fucking married to the only person he could ever fathom having a life with. Mickey _only_ wanted this with Ian. It was the reason it had hurt so much when Ian wasn’t sure about it. Why Mickey had to keep pushing back when Ian just wanted to talk. He was terrified he was going to hear Ian resign himself to this. Say something like _“it might as well be you”_ and have to put it next to his own _“It has to be you, it has to be you, everyone else just fucking sucks and I can’t stand it.”_

But ever since he lost the stomach to watch Ian suffer, and decided to read the increasingly pathetic attempts to reach out as close enough to enthusiasm for him to live with, he’s started to understand that Ian maybe wanted this all along. That whatever was in his way, it wasn’t Mickey — because god damn does he feel the love from Ian right now. 

And he doesn’t entirely understand what happened that has Ian feeling so good, but it’s Thanksgiving and maybe he should just appreciate having something to be grateful for. And he is grateful for Ian. Healthy Ian, particularly. Just being fun and goofy and loving all over him. He wants to nail it down what shifted so that he can try to do it again, whenever Ian starts to get overwhelmed with self-loathing. But right now, he’s just going to soak it up. Bask in Ian surging up to kiss him after finally peeling Mikey’s shirt off his body. Because he really is done with trying to get over Gallagher. Forever.

***

The vibe on the first floor is stark contrast from the chilly quiet upstairs. Sandy and Debbie are sitting at the kitchen table, joking over the remains of their breakfast. Franny is in the living room, standing half a foot in front of the TV, twisting back and forth as she watches Peppa Pig with the rapt attention of a religious zealot. His cousin tosses a dry “Good morning” and he manages a grunt in return as he makes a beeline for the coffee pot, determined to get out of here with the least amount of conversation possible.

“I’m surprised you’re up.” Debbie’s tone is fully loaded. 

“And why’s that, Nancy Drew?” 

“Heard you and Ian fighting at 3 AM.” 

This fucking house. 

“We weren’t fighting.” 

“Then what was that?”

“None of your business, is what it was. Is this all the bread we have?” Mickey holds up the nearly exhausted bag containing both heels of the loaf and nothing else. 

“That’s it.” 

“Great,” he mutters, banging open the cupboards until he comes across a jar of peanut butter that is literally bigger than his head, and an open box of Pop-Tarts. 

“Ian upstairs?”

“Where the fuck else would he be?” 

“He ok?” 

“He’s fine,” Mickey tosses the bread into the toaster and then fishes the one remaining packet of toaster pastry out of the box. It’s open. “How is there only one Pop-tart left?” 

“Franny only ever wants one.” 

“Don’t we have any REAL food in the house?” 

Debbie shrugs. “We have eggs, we have Cheerios, we have, like, half a pound of ham. You could make pancakes—“

“Don’t have time for that.” 

Sandy smirks at him in a way that is so similar to every Milkovich he has ever known that his field of vision momentarily turns red. “You on a real strict schedule there, Mick?” 

“Ian’s gotta eat to take his meds,” Debbie murmurs and Mickey studiously watches the toaster, trying to ignore the fact that something about her _knowing_ what he’s doing makes him queasy. He can tell Debbie is winding up to ask another question he does not want to fucking answer when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Saved by the fucking bell. 

Or not. 

**Lip:** Hey. You around? Ian’s not answering my texts. 

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the Gallaghers plan this. Just gang up to endlessly ask him questions about how Ian’s doing, because they can’t wait a normal, human amount of time for him to answer a fucking text message.

 **Mick:** He’s still asleep, asshole. 

**Lip:** Usually up by now, isn’t he? 

**Mick:** It’s 8:30 and he got off work at 2am. You do the math. 

**Lip:** He ok? 

Jesus. 

**Mick:** Just tired. 

**Lip:** Ok. 

Mickey grimaces. Even over text, Lip’s “ok’s” are loaded as fuck. 

**Lip:** We’re going on a Costco run before it gets crazy. You guys need? 

“Debbie! We got a Costco list?” 

“On the fridge.” 

Mickey turns, eyes it, scrawls “bread” across the bottom, then takes a photo that he sends off to Lip just in time for the toast to pop. The heat bites his fingers as he pulls the slices out. Tossing in the Pop-Tart, he starts to slam around the drawers looking for a clean butter knife. “Who the fuck was on dishes last night?” 

“Carl.” 

Explains everything. He pulls a wet knife out of the sink, still sticky with margarine and bread crumbs, muttering “fucking disgusting.” 

He nearly jumps when he feels something next to his leg, but sense-memory kicks in just in time, preventing him from kicking Ian’s four-year-old niece across the floor. Instead he looks down to see her, arm wrapped around his thigh, leaning into him. She looks up. Blinks. Beams. 

“You want something?” 

“Juice.” 

He glances up at Debbie. “Juice?” 

“Sure.” 

He’s too tightly wound for the kid this morning, so he doesn’t get why she picked him to bother. He never really gets Franny’s deal, honestly. She barely acknowledged his existence before the wedding, but now he is Uncle Mickey, who she asks for juice and whose lap she has no qualms about crawling into for no god damn reason, even when there are other perfectly serviceable laps available. 

“Sippy cup if you’re not going to sit at the table.” _How_ does he know this stuff? How? 

“Sippy cup,” she confirms, because Peppa beckons. 

The toast is cooling, the Pop-Tart is going to be done any second, but he still tosses the knife back onto the counter, fishes both parts of her favourite sippy cup out of the dish rack and fills it with two parts juice, one part water. Franny sings out a little “thank you!” when he hands it off and he’s annoyed at how warm that makes him feel. 

When he turns back, Debbie has reached across from the other side of the counter and pulled down a plate for Ian’s toast. He picks up the butter knife, brandishing it like a weapon, but mutters “thanks,” as he starts to spread the peanut butter. Debbie gives him a purposely saccharine smile and swans back to the table. 

“So,” she prompts. “You gonna tell me why Ian’s so exhausted?” 

“Working his ass off. Isn’t that enough?” 

“He can usually drag himself down to breakfast.” 

“Well, he doesn’t have to, so he isn’t.” 

Sandy snorts at this, still finding something hilarious about the fact that Mickey and Ian are nice to each other and shit. Debbie slaps the back of her hand, though affectionately, then returns to the third degree. “They actually going to let him have his days off this time? They’re not gonna call him in?” 

“I don’t know.” Even to his own ears he sounds belligerent. “They gotta let him rest. They know he can’t work these kind of hours without a break.” 

“Does _he_ know that?” 

_He fucking better._ Mickey tosses the knife back into the sink for Carl to deal with and decides to put an end to this. 

“Where's the fucking Gatorade?” 

“We’re out. Check the back porch, there's a case of coconut water. It was on sale.” 

“What the fuck is that?” 

“It’s like... natural gatorade. It’s supposed to be good for you and shit.” 

Mickey gives Debbie a level stare. “You know Ian’s gonna to hate that.” 

“Well, there wasn’t anything else. No Gatorade, no Powerade, no All Sport. No yellow, no red, no blue. There WAS coconut water and I bet you he still drinks it.” 

Mickey narrows his eyes and pushes open the back door, letting in the too-fucking-cold-for-spring air. Sure enough, there’s a mountain of tall blue and green cans with a big-ass coconut on the front. He pulls out his phone and shoots off another text.

 **Mick:** Get some Gatorade if you see any. 

**Lip:** There’s a case of coconut water on the back porch. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

Mickey tucks a frigid can under his arm, coming back inside right as Debbie starts to complain about the door being open. He takes Ian’s plate of toast in one hand, his coffee in the other, pulls the Pop-Tart from the toaster with his teeth and gives a muffled, “see ya.” 

“Husband of the year, right here,” he hears Sandy snicker as he starts up the stairs. He’d shoot back a ‘damn right’, but he doesn’t want to lose the Pop-Tart. 

***

**WEEK THREE**

Mickey’s father has gone too fucking far. Burning down the Bamboo Lotus was bad. Shooting up their honeymoon suite was substantially worse. To be honest, the shot he’d taken at Ian and Mickey when they were coming off the L was mostly lazy and neither of them respected it much. But then Terry shot out the front window of the Gallagher House and that was fucking IT. 

He and Ian had a blow out fight about it. Mostly because Ian would not accept that this isn’t going to STOP. He has a frankly absurd amount of faith in the cops, and the system, neither of which has ever done a god damn thing to protect anyone from Terry Milkovich. 

Things devolved from there. Mickey became convinced Ian was lying about his faith in the cops and was just saying that because he doesn't want Mickey to kill his father, because thinks that Mickey won’t get away with it. And he did not fucking appreciate it when Mickey pointed out that he’d never gone to jail for any of the shit he’d actually DONE, just the dumb stuff that happened to him because he was stupid enough to fall in love with Ian Gallagher. 

That had led to Ian insisting that he would have backed Mickey up if he’d wanted to tell the truth about Kash, and that Frank never HAD told anyone about them, and additionally, all he had to do was NOT put Sammi in a shipping crate, which is a lot easier to SAY than to DO, frankly, with Debbie crying like that, and JESUS CHRIST, just let him handle this!

Then Ian had threatened to just blow Terry up, if they were going to get into doing stupid shit that would get them sent back to prison, and Mickey really had nearly pushed him down the god damn stairs again. Instead he’d gone for a walk, just to see if it would make him feel even slightly less homicidal. He came back 45 minutes later twice as pissed off, but at least willing to channel it into fucking instead of fighting. 

Maybe not your A-Number One coping strategy, but at least it ended the argument. Mickey didn't have to _say_ he wasn’t going to murder his father, and Ian didn’t have to _say_ he wasn’t going to blow anything up. They just decided to hold their position. Because what the fuck else is there to do when you’re on parole, and your father wants to murder you? 

But after that, Ian stops sleeping. Not entirely, but enough that Mickey usually wakes up a few times a night to his restless energy. He’s also hyper focused in a way that manifests in organization. Two nights ago he deep cleaned the entire kitchen for no fucking reason except that he was “trying to stay busy”. The vibe is a little intense, but some of that predated the front window being shot to hell. 

The thing was, it made sense. Being stressed and freaked out made sense. Ian always got restless when there was a problem to solve. But Mickey knew how the Gallaghers reacted whenever they sensed Ian was upset about something, and he wasn’t going to join in. He wasn’t going to ask questions or harass him about what he was feeling. He was just waiting. For something. Something that would let him know. 

Then, the morning of the third Saturday after their wedding, Mickey wakes up at 5AM and to find himself alone in their bed. The sheets are cold and this time, he knows. He gets up like an alarm has just gone off, and does a quick search of the house. He doesn’t find Ian, but his running shoes are gone, so Mickey pulls on some clothes and goes to sit out on the front porch, smoking and stressing by himself until Ian jogs up a good hour later. 

“You know what this looks like, right?” Mickey asks off Ian’s wary fucking expression. 

Ian nods, breathing hard. He paces a little circle on the sidewalk, then looks off down the street for a bit before finally turning back. “You worried?” 

“Yep.” 

“Ok, but—“ 

“First time I’ve been worried in _years_ ,” Mickey points out, because it's true. He hasn't said a fucking thing to Ian about treatment since he was getting on meds the first time. “You can’t just run this off. You know that won't work.” 

Ian’s jaw is so tight he can barely get his next words out. “This can’t fucking happen right now.” 

“Well, it is.” 

Mickey can tell he is listening. He knows Ian doesn't want to, wants to deny it, but as he watches, his husband lets go of the fight. “Yeah. Ok.” 

“You wanna come inside?”

Ian stares down at the walkway, his breath still coming in pants. When he finally lifts his eyes, they are shining with unshed tears. Without thinking Mickey is off the steps and pulling Ian into his arms. He feels Ian sag against him in a way that was too familiar. When he finally speaks, it’s a rough whisper made into Mickey’s shoulder. 

“Fucking sorry.” 

“Don’t start that shit. This is nothing. You just take the pills and I’ll call the clinic. That’s it.” 

“I just got a new job, Mick. Just.” 

“So you push back the start date if you have to. It’s not going anywhere. And if it is, fuck ‘em. They know the deal. That’s why they’re starting you on an easy schedule, right?” 

“Just. Didn’t want to do this to you so fast.” 

“You’re not doing anything to me. Fucking _love_ you, Ian. You’re not doing shit to me.”

Ian pulls back, nodding, but he looks so devastated it's hard not to feel like _Mickey_ has done something to _him_. 

“It’s just. You can’t fucking rely on me.” 

Mickey closes his eyes. He knows what Ian is saying. He knows he’s looking at this and seeing failure and an inability to cope. To stand on equal footing with Mickey while they have a homicidal maniac after them. And he _gets it_ , but it’s not true. 

“Hey,” Mickey reaches out and catches the back of Ian’s neck. He pulls their foreheads together, looking Ian straight in the eye. Steady and undeniable. “You are the ONLY person I can rely on.” 

“Mick.” 

“Not fucking fighting about this, Ian. You’re gonna do what you need to do. I know that. I _know_ that.” 

Ian exhales. He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, like even now he can’t quite stand still. “Yeah. Ok.” 

“And not for nothing, but if you’d married someone respectable, none of this would be happening.” 

Ian snorts and allows a wry smile. It really does feel like the sun coming out to Mickey. It feels miraculous. 

“Yeah, well. Never had much of a choice on that one.” 

***

Ian’s still crashed out. He doesn’t stir at the sound of the door, or when Mickey puts everything down on their dresser. And Mickey just fucking hates this. He told Ian _last night_ that he knew he wasn’t manic and he still doesn't think he is. But he can’t remember ever seeing Ian wiped out like this when he wasn’t cycling. And he knows, even if Ian’s just exhausted from work—which he is, which he has GOT to be—that this kind of stress, these messed up sleep patterns, all these hours, they’re bad for him. They don’t fucking help. 

The problem is, Mickey also knows what being an EMT means to Ian, and the solution is not going to be Ian losing this job. Which just makes all of this more stressful for both of them. Because Ian 100% sees this as his last chance and he might not be entirely wrong about that. 

Still. Mickey’s got a lot of faith in Ian, so he crawls back into their so-called marriage bed, settling in with his back against the wall. He gives it a good minute before he reaches out and jostles Ian’s shoulder. He has to do it twice, but when Ian opens his eyes and focuses, he smiles slightly. Mickey immediately feels a bit better. 

“Hey. You gotta eat.” 

“Yeah,” Ian sounds resigned. He rolls over on his back with some effort and, in trying to pull himself up, hisses when his bare shoulders brush against the chill of the wall. 

“Jesus, you’re useless this morning,” Mickey complains. “Just sit up. Here.” He reaches out, opens one of the bottom drawers of their dresser and pulls out a navy hoodie. He tosses it to Ian who seems to struggle with the concept of clothing for the moment, but then blearily puts it on. Once he's managed that, Mickey drags Ian back so that he is cradled between his legs, body resting against his chest. Ian sinks into him, in a way that just makes Mickey feel good. Necessary. He hands Ian his plate, which he takes without incident and they eat together in silence. Ian takes in Mickey’s sole strawberry Pop-tart, but he doesn’t comment. In fact, he says nothing until Mickey takes his finished plate from him and he notices the can on the dresser. 

“Why do we have that hipster shit?” 

“It was on sale. Here.” Mickey pops the top and places it in Ian’s hand. Ian takes a swig, then makes a face. 

“Yeah. That’s disgusting.” 

“Well, there’s a whole case of it for you on the back porch. Gatorade’s at a premium. Look at this way — you’re not going to have to worry about someone else swiping your hardcore hydration shit.” 

Ian looks frankly tragic at this news, but Mickey hands him his pills and he takes them readily, washing them down with the coconut water. He makes another face, but there’s no further comment. After a moment, Mickey gently pulls the can from his fingers and puts it back on the dresser, next to the empty plate. Ian doesn’t move so Mickey rubs his hands encouragingly up and down his arms. 

“You ok?” 

“What time is it?” 

“Heading towards nine.” 

Ian turns his head, stretching his neck and resting his cheek against Mickey’s chest. “I feel like I could sleep for a week.” 

Mickey presses his face into Ian’s hair and breathes. “You wanna go back to bed?” 

“Probably shouldn’t.” 

He moves as if he’s getting up, but instead Ian just hefts himself off Mickey and the slide back over to their respective sides of the bed. He sits a minute, staring with empty eyes, before twisting around and reaching out for his husband. Mickey watches as Ian presses first into his rib cage, and then just below, seeking more warmth and comfort. Eyes closed, he exhales and stills. As his breathing deepens, Mickey lightly drags his fingers through Ian’s hair. 

“You’re gonna fall asleep again.” Ian doesn’t even respond. Another minute and it’s clear. He’s gone. 

Mickey feels that sharp pang, in his finger tips this time, and chews at his lip in an effort to distract himself. Ian’s skin is warm through the cotton of his t-shirt. They’ve have been back together over a year, have spent countless mornings and evenings together, and he still feels so good when Ian does this. Before Ian, Mickey never really saw himself as much of a caregiver. But he wants to do this stuff. He wants to bring Ian toast and hold him so that he doesn’t have to sit up agains the cold wall in their bedroom. And now he wants to stay in bed with Ian asleep against him, and stroke his hair and just waste hours of his life being a human pillow.

Ian stirs a little, burrowing a little further into his side, one arm moving from where it was tucked under his chin to wrap around Mickey’s waist. Yeah. He’s not going anywhere. He reaches out for the paperback he’s been idly picking up and putting down whenever he’s truly run out of anything else to do. He’s mostly been using it to help himself get to sleep, though it wasn’t the most soothing bedtime reading. But trying to get to sleep while Ian was still at work was getting to be a job in and of itself. 

He notices the open can of coconut water, and nudges it with his knuckle. It’s still pretty full. Ian didn’t have enough to drink and now he’s going to feel even worse than he already does. Staying hydrated is always a thing for him, but it’s even worse when he has to mask for most of his work day. And suddenly, Mickey is just super pissed off. He picks up his phone and jabs out an angry text to Lip. 

**Mick:** What the fuck is the problem with just getting a case of Gatorade if they have it? He’s working fucked up hours, he’s stressing about every fucking thing he touches, the meds dry him out and the Gatorade makes him feel better. 

He silences his phone and puts it facedown on the dresser. There’s a pretty good fucking chance he’s going to regret that. 

***

**WEEK TWO**

Ian loved being an EMT. He used to talk about it on the inside. It was clearly the thing he regretted the most about what happened. He didn’t regret helping kids. He didn’t even really regret blowing up the van, so much as he understood that it was dangerous and he _should_ regret it. He DID regret going off his meds and losing control of the situation. He was carrying a lot of shame about that, which Mickey felt equipped to fight… but he was also battling the loss of his career. It was the army all over again. And that Mickey couldn’t help with. He knew how fucked the world was for convicted felons. Ian was right to mourn. 

Basic survival has always taking up most of Mickey’s energy, so Ian’s career aspirations were never something he related to much. That had shifted now to merely keeping things clean so that he could stay out of prison, and ultimately stay with Ian. His job was boring, apart from the brief moments where it was annoying, but it paid and it kept his PO off his back, so he was mostly satisfied. But Ian needed more. Mickey has known him long enough to recognize exactly how much helping people gave him focus and purpose. He remembers Ian’s relief—delight, almost—when he was assigned to the infirmary in prison. And probably one of the worst thing about Paula was that she’d put him back into a rig and then expected him NOT to administer care to people who needed it. It was like expecting a dog not to chase a tennis ball. Ian found it both confusing and painful. Mickey knew full well the only way to deal with the Paulas of the world was to put your head down and get through it. She held all the power and he’s tried to get Ian to see that. It was fruitless, because he was fucking Gallagher, after all, and he was right that Paula was uniquely awful. However, it was now turning out she was uniquely awful in a way that might have helped them out. 

Ian hadn’t tipped Mickey on this, but while he was doing that awful job, he had run into some people he'd known before. He’d found that reasonably humiliating, but it had turned out to serve a purpose. Word got around and then, he discovered there was a difference between being a felon who’d gone down for a convoluted attempted murder, and being an activist who’d gone too far in a righteous pursuit. Ian blew up a van, and had publicly owned that he was unmedicated at the time, but there was still some juice around the whole Gay Jesus thing. The cause was just in a lot of people’s eyes and one of those people had just offered Ian a job. 

It was a better gig than driving a corrupt ambulance, all the way around, with better pay, better hours, and he’d knew his supervisor, Sue, from his old job. The one he’d had before things got well and truly fucked. When he got the offer just days after getting his cast off, Ian had come home in a state. Mickey didn’t even know how to describe it—it was that same intensity that he knew way too well, but there was a direct cause this time.

“It’ll be good for us,” Ian had sounded a little breathless. “If I can hold it together this time. Sue’s good. She’s really fair and she knows me. Once I’ve been there a little longer the pay will get better, too.” 

“You’re gonna hold it together. I’ll kick your ass if you don’t.” He had been teasing but Ian had only managed a weak smile in return. 

“The health insurance is better. It’ll cover my meds and I can have more consistent care than at the clinic, so that should help,” Mickey could see Ian running through everything, trying to see if he could fit the pieces together in a way that worked. In a way he could trust. Then he’d suddenly lit up. “You can be on my health insurance.” 

“What?” 

“We’re married. You’ll be on my health insurance.” 

Old Army had benefits, but he was just shy of full-time, so he wasn’t covered. Mickey still found Ian’s excitement about this baffling. 

“It’s good insurance,” Ian clarified, seeming to think Mickey was skeptical, because he kept going, explaining the coverage and the co-pay. And this is the weird shit he has to think about now that they’re married. Ian didn’t used to want to talk about their plans. And part of that was because they were kids and part of it was because Ian was sick, and profoundly uninterested in the practical future. It’s never been Mickey’s thing, either. Until very recently, he’d just tried to hold on to what was good in the present and not hope for much else. Honestly, he’s still getting used to the idea that “til death do us part” is probably going to be decades. With the life he thought he’d have falling steadily into the rearview, there’s suddenly a point in thinking about what he might actually _want_ , other than Ian. What he might be able to have. That’s a lot to wrap his mind around

He can see that idea of the rest of their lives overwhelm Ian sometimes, too. Not in the way Mickey had been worried about when Ian backed out of their first attempt at getting married. Not like Ian wasn't sure he wanted Mickey indefinitely. But just that he looks at Mickey and sees someone he has to be healthy for. And he’s scared. He’s scared he won’t be able to do it. 

“I mean, I don't know what I need insurance for, but that's cool.” 

“Literally been shot at twice in the last week and a half.” 

“Shot AT. Not hit.” 

Ian just shakes his head. “Sue wants to get a drink tonight to catch up. It’d be good if you could come.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Because I want her to know where I’m at right now and you’re a pretty big part of that. And because she very obviously hinted that she wants to meet you.” 

“Why would she give a fuck about meeting me?” 

Ian exhales, like this is taking patience. “Because I drove with her for, like, 18 months. She knows about you. And now suddenly I’m back on her radar and I’ve married you and I think she just wants to get a sense of what that means.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “No way this is going to be good for you.” 

“How is it not going to be good for me?” 

“You think I make a good first fucking impression? Because I do not.” 

“Sue’s not like that.” 

“Everyone is like that. Think about it. What did you first think of me?”

Ian considers this, then starts to smile. His smile spreads until he starts to actually laugh and Mickey’s face heats. 

“You see? Bad first impression!” 

“You were TRYING to make a bad impression! You were the most anti-social 8 year old, ever. Come on!” 

Mickey could accept that judgement, in part because he liked that Ian had noticed him years before he’d really become aware of Lip Gallagher’s annoying little brother. He hadn’t really paid attention to Ian until they’d both hit puberty and Ian became a lot harder for him to ignore. 

“You sure you want this?” Mickey knows the answer, though he doesn’t understand it. He’s going to make Ian say it anyway.

“Yes, I’m sure I want this. Will you come meet my new boss with me, please.” It isn’t a question and Ian looks more amused than annoyed. So ok, Mickey agrees to go meet Ian’s boss. It’s the next night at an upscale coffee shop that serves wine and beer and pretty decent cheesecake, but is a mile away from the usual places they hang out. Sue is tough and friendly, and it’s clear she likes Ian a lot, but Mickey can see what he was getting at. She’s wary.

“So. You’re the infamous Mickey Milkovich! I heard you were out of the country.” She says it with humour, but it has an edge. Mickey can resist the bait. He expected something like this and he knows that, whatever Ian might want out of this night, it’s not going to be Mickey telling off his new supervisor. So he shrugs. 

“The heat didn't agree with me and this one can’t keep himself out of trouble, so I decided to come back.” 

Sue smiles a bit at that. “And you keep him out of trouble?” 

It occurs to Mickey that citing the prison term was maybe not the note Ian wanted him to hit, but when he glances towards his husband, he’s still hunched over his coffee, fidgeting with a sugar packet. He puts a firm hand on Ian’s thigh, hoping he can at least help to ground him a bit. 

“It’s…uh… pretty mutual.” 

“So how’d you two meet?”

This is such a normal couple question and Mickey used to fucking hate it, but he’s figured out a patter since then. “Around the neighbourhood. He was friends with my sister.” 

“Best friends,” Ian confirms. “Me and Mick were together most of high school.” 

“Not that we were _going_ to high school.” Fuck. That was probably also the wrong thing to say. He fucking knew he was going to be a disaster. 

“Yeah, I know all about Ian’s… adventures?” 

Mickey very much doubted that, but Sue probably knew Ian had dropped out, joined the army and did a stint as a go-go boy before getting his GED. He decides to actually commit to a narrative. 

“Yeah, he had some detours. But, um,” he sits up a bit, trying to look a little more natural than he feels. “Ian's always been pretty focused. Like when we met, he was hardcore into ROTC. You did, what, 200 push-ups a day?” 

Ian smiles slightly. “Eventually.” 

“He had a six-pack when he was 16. Could run a six minute mile, and scale walls and shit. He’s got…” Mickey searches for a good word. “Grit, you know? He’s fucking determined.” 

Sue smiles. “So what do you think, Mickey? He gonna be any good at this?”

It’s a warm and affectionate question, but Mickey has zero doubt that she wants to hear him confirm something for her. It occurs to him that she has almost definitely put herself on the line for Ian here. Probably in a pretty big way.

“He’ll be great. Loves this shit. It’s gonna be the most important thing in his life.” 

“Present company excluded.” 

Ian says this into his coffee mug and the smile on his face is almost shy. Sue seems amused and mouthes a little _“awwww,”_ before turning back to Mickey. 

“He came in like a god damn hurricane when we first hired him on at the old place. Highest test scores of anyone on the team. Focused like a son-of-a-bitch, just like you said.”

“Yeah, sounds like him. See the hill, take the hill.” 

“That’s gotta be fun to live with.” 

That, Mickey laughs at. He’s never given any real thought to whether Ian is hard to live with or not. Not even when they were at each other’s throat. It’s pretty binary. Either Ian is driving him nuts or he’s not.

“I get by.” 

Under the table Ian rests his hand over Mickey’s. Mickey glances over to see if this is some kind of hint or warning, but Ian just squeezes his hand and says nothing.

“So!” Sue, leans back in the booth and picks up her beer. “Tell me about this wedding! I can’t believe you got fucking married!” 

Mickey sits back and lets Ian take the reins at this point. Ian’s version of their wedding day is light and funny, steering around the whole murderous homophobe thing. At one point he leans over and kisses Mickey’s cheek in a way that he's sure Sue must find adorable. The conversation hovers around married life a bit and then moves on to what Sue’s been up to. Overall Mickey doesn’t feel like he fucked things up too badly when they say goodnight. Sue and Ian have started talking EMT shit so Mickey isn't expecting it when she turns to him.

“Mr. Milkovich!” She claps him on the shoulder. “Take care good care of him, ok?” 

He’s momentarily speechless, because he can’t just go to his usual route and tell her to fuck off, so he nods awkwardly. “What I'm here for.” 

Sue and Ian hug and she hops into an Uber, leaving Mickey with an only slightly less jittery Ian. 

“Jesus Christ. That must be what it’s like to have a father-in-law.” 

“Technically, you have a father-in-law.”

“Oh, yeah? You should introduce us some time.” 

“I’ll get right on that.” Ian slings his arm around Mickey’s shoulders. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah?” Mickey raises his eyebrows. “I did ok?” 

“You did great.” 

***

It’s 11:30 when Ian finally stirs. He lifts his head, looking groggy and baffled by his surroundings. 

“Welcome back,” Mickey comments, putting down his book and rubbing his thumb along the back of Ian’s neck. 

“Still morning?” 

“Barely.” 

Ian’s head dips down onto Micky’s hip and he groans. 

“You feeling ok?” 

“No,” Ian’s complaint is muffled. He rolls over onto his back with great effort, pillowing his head on Mickey’s stomach, then casts his eyes towards his husband, mournfully. “I shouldn’t have gone back to sleep.” 

“Headache?” 

“Mmm. A bit. Mostly I just feel like I’ve been stepped on by something huge. Like a T-Rex.” 

“You get fucking poetic about how rotten you feel in the morning, you know that? Here,” Mickey passes over the coconut water. “Drink something.” 

Ian groans, but wrestles himself up onto an elbow as, true to Debbie’s prediction, he chugs the rest of the can in one go. 

“There’s literally little chunks of coconut in there,” mutters, successfully launching the can into their garbage can. “This shit had better be fucking magic.” Ian rolls over and nestles himself against Mickey again, with his head in his lap this time. “I can still taste it.” 

“You got a lot of fucking complaints today.” 

“I’m making a list.” Ian closes his eyes again, but his hand slides over Mickey’s and he taps out a little rhythm, suggesting he’s not actually so tired that he’s going to pass out again. Mickey finds his entire demeanour calming, to be honest. Normal. Maybe a little goofy. “Tomorrow I’ll make you a real breakfast.” 

“You knocking my peanut butter toast skills?” 

“Pop-Tart,” Ian pats his hand sloppily. “Better than Pop-Tart.” 

Mickey’s instinct is toss something back at him, some snarky-but-fond insult. But Ian, who is soft and sleepy and trying to be sweet, just robs him of his breath, so he settles for something a little more mellow. “Ok, tough guy. Tomorrow you’ll conquer the world.” 

“No. Just breakfast.” He sighs. “No one else knows how nice you are.” 

“Maybe not.” 

They stay in companionable silence. Ian somehow both groggy and fidgety, and Mickey gazing down at him, lost in overwhelming fondness and maybe a little bit of relief.

“I should probably take a shower.” 

Mickey wants to protest. Just keep Ian here, with his head in his lap. It's been awhile since they’ve been able to just lie in bed together. And, he’s realizing, Ian hadn’t really been touching him the last little bit. They were still sleeping in the same bed, but Ian wasn’t curling up to him at night the way he usually did. Mickey would wake up to find he had come in at some ungodly hour and was lying on the far edge of the bed with his back to him. He’d fucking hated it, but he couldn’t find a way to say _“stop not cuddling me”_ that didn’t sound insanely needy.

“You should probably take a shower,” Mickey agrees with a little regret. He rubs his thumb against Ian’s jaw. “And shave while you’re at it.” 

“You don’t like the scruff?” 

“I don’t like fucking beard burn on my neck, is what I don't like.” 

Ian grins and opens his eyes. “Oh? You have something in mind for later?” 

“Go have your god damn shower.” 

“Just sayin’,” Ian sits up with a surprising amount of grace, given how messy he’s been all morning. “It’s been a week.” 

“Whose fucking fault it that?” 

“Uh. The Governor. The President. Maybe the mayor.” 

“Getting cock-blocked by the United States government. Sounds about right. 

Ian grants him a smile as he stumbles to his feet. He pauses at their bedside to press a kiss to the top of Mickey’s head. “Be right back.”

Alone in their bedroom, Mickey sits and grins at no one like the lovesick idiot he is. It annoys him, sometimes, how instantly Ian can ensorcel him. But here he is, feeling all flushed and excited. It’s fucking ridiculous. He sinks back into the pillow and picks up his book again in an effort to distract himself. Fucking million page novel with a million god damn characters, but he had a lot of days to fill right now. Whatever Ellen might have to say about it, isolating with his in-laws and one cousin wasn’t anything like prison. He and Carl had played through most of Red Dead Redemption, and sometimes they’d work out together. He’d taught Liam to play Euchre online and that killed an hour here and there. Two days ago, he and Debbie had spent three hours working on a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle that was entirely straw hats. That had mostly been an opportunity to rage at an inanimate object in a way that was weirdly entertaining for both of them. He gives Franny airplane rides and has play races with her in the back alley so that they can both burn off some energy. But it isn't enough. He still feels restless and he’s realizing just how much of that had to do with the fact that he was always waiting on whatever version of his husband is eventually going to stumble through the door. Not having that on his mind is a fucking relief. 

When Ian comes back 20 minutes later, he smells of Old Spice body wash and has, in fact, shaved. He’s also well and truly awake. He has the light green towel around his waist and Mickey doesn’t deny himself the opportunity to take in the cut of his hips and his sculpted arms as he lifts them to apply his deodorant. While Mickey can claim expert-level knowledge of Ian’s body, his husband did have a point earlier: it has been a fucking week. 

His interest in his book is flagging when Ian glances over at him and immediately looks confused. 

“Are you reading _The Stand?_ ” 

Mickey glances down the paperback and notes, not for the first time, that is sort of a fucked up choice right now. He shrugs and turns back to his place. “The Gallagher Library isn’t that vast, man.”

“Since when do you read?” 

Mickey flips him off without looking up. “I gotta tell you, going by this, I would kill it in the post-apocalypse.” 

“Yeah, you’ve always been a pretty essential part of my zombie survival plan.” 

That was both flattering and fucking obvious. “It’d be a good set up. You patch up the good guys, I’ll take down the bad guys.” 

When Ian doesn’t respond, Mickey lifts his eyes he sees he’s picked up his phone and is frowning at it. “Do you know why Lip is texting me pictures of Gatorade?” 

Fucking asshole. Mickey turns back to his book. 

“No idea.” 

“He says _‘Here you go, Diva. Tell your husband to chill out.’_ ”

“I don’t know, man. Your brother is weird.” 

This also doesn’t lead to a response and Mickey can’t resist letting his eyes dart in Ian’s direction. He is grinning at him. Like a fucking idiot. 

“What the hell is up with you today?” 

“I don’t know. It was a good shower.” 

“You feel any better?” 

“Much better,” Ian confirms, tossing his towel aside. “Much, much better.” 

Mickey smirks at the towel lying in the middle of the floor, then directs his attention back to his book. “Fuck off. I’m trying to read.”

“Well, don’t let me interrupt,” Ian murmurs, with fake sincerely. Then throws his giant naked body over Mickey to bounce on the bed beside him. “Read to me.” 

He can’t get this fucking smile off his face. “No.” 

“But I’m bored.”

“You’re not bored. You’re horny.” 

Ian rolls over onto his side. “Reading me Steven King could solve both problems.”

Mickey tries not to—he really does—but he cracks up. “What the fuck does that even mean?” 

“I’m not super into the Trash Can Man.” Ian creeps his hand across Mickey’s stomach, inching up the hem of his t-shirt. “Or hearing about the fallout of a global pandemic.” 

Mickey sighs and lays his book on this chest. He turns his eyes on his husband and takes him in. Ian slides his hand under Mickey’s shirt and strokes his stomach without comment. It feels really, really good. The heat of his hand, the soft touch. Mickey doesn’t have much patience left for this game. He just wants Ian to touch him. With a shrug, Mickey dislodges the paperback from its resting place and it slides off the bed with a thud. 

Ian’s eyes widen. “You dropped your book.”

“You’re fucking impossible, you know that?” 

Ian’s hand slides up Mickey’s ribcage, pulling the t-shirt up with it. “You’ve mentioned it.” 

And he kisses him. It hasn’t been that long but it feels like a fucking millennium. His lips are soft and his mouth is hot and when Mickey tries to reach for him, Ian presses him back sliding on top of him and pushing him into the mattress. His hands reach for Mickey’s wrists and he pins them up next to his head. And Mickey does not know if he has this in him today, because the heat that rushes through him is so demanding, it feels dangerous. But he also fucking loves this. He loves feeling Ian’s weight and his strength. He loves pushing his own body into him, pressing their chest together as he arches up into their kiss, opening his mouth and silently begging for more. 

“Ian! You up?” 

Ian drops his head onto Mickey’s shoulder and lets out a slight whimper before yelling back. “What do you want, Carl?” 

“Debbie’s making lunch. You guys want some?”

Ian glances down at Mickey, who can barely restrain himself from screaming in frustration. 

“You hungry?” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“We’re FINE. Go away.” 

Though the closed bedroom door they can hear the exasperated sputter. “It’s _noon_ , you horny motherfuckers,” Carl bellows, stomping off down the hall. Mickey bares his teeth at Ian. 

“Your fucking family.” 

“I know, I know,” Ian soothes. “They’re monsters.” Letting one of Mickey’s wrists go, Ian instead cups his cheek, and drags his thumb across his lip. Mickey immediately melts. He can just feel how he must look right now, gazing up at his husband like he’s a fucking miracle. Still. Just always. He has never gotten used to Ian touching him like this. There is so much he misses about Ian when they're apart. He’s had more than enough experience with it. But one thing he aches for is this—lying with him. Ian grinning at him. Laughing with him. Touching him like he’s worth everything.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Ian murmurs. 

“Yeah, well.” 

Ian seems to have lost touch with what the fuck they were doing, so Mickey pushes up and captures his mouth again. He can already feel a familiar impatience licking at him. _Stop not cuddling me_ , x-rated version. Ian magnanimously deigns to return the kiss, cradling the back of his head with one hand while the other starts to work on the t-shirt again. Mickey rolls up into him, pushing him back until they are making out furiously, rolling around on their stupidly small bed, Mickey only allowing Ian to pull back long enough to finally toss the t-shirt onto the floor. He feels dizzy, as he reaches for him again. Looking for more and more and more. 

“What do you want,” Ian breathes against his ear.

“What?” 

“Wanna make you feel _so_ good. Tell me what you want.”

Mickey groans and if he were an entirely different person he’d tell Ian to just keep saying shit like that because Jesus. Instead he pushes out, “Just fuck me, Gallagher. For Christ’s sake.” 

“Such a romantic.” He can hear the smile without looking for it. 

“You’re always such a fucking tease.” 

“Mmm. You love it when I tease you.” 

He hates it. But he also loves it. Usually simultaneously. Ian was so fucking infuriating sometimes. 

“You gonna give me a menu or something?” Mickey complains. Ian likes that. He chuckles softly as he presses Mickey onto his back. Kissing his neck so softly, and running his hands just under the elastic of the flannel PJ pants he has stubbornly not permitted to be kicked off yet. Mickey starts to squirm beneath him. “Oh, my God. I fucking hate you.” 

Mickey likes sex, but it makes him cranky. It had taken him awhile to figure out why, and he’d never TELL Ian this, but he’d kinda ruined him for other men. Not that Mickey had ever or would ever entertain celibacy, but it had become a pretty consistent that he’d leave most encounters feeling something akin to frustration and anger. He had asked Ian once what had spurred him to beat up Byron and Ian had just shrugged that he was talking shit. Then he’d grinned and teased “made it pretty fucking clear he couldn’t handle you in bed.” Mickey had felt himself flush and struggled to toss any bravado back, settling for a muttered “Shut up.” 

But he could admit, to himself at least, that Ian knew how to handle him. The fact was, he liked sex best when he didn’t have to think and sex with everyone who wasn’t Ian required constant vigilance. He’d just never felt like he could let his guard down. Because Ian was, for lack of a better term, broken in. He knew what to do. He could predict what Mickey wanted in a way no one else ever could and it meant he could do what he was doing now… just lie back and let Ian touch him. Actually fucking relax. It was just better. 

Except that, right at this moment, Ian is still touching him in a way that might have been developed in a lab to drive him absolutely out of his mind. He kicks at the mattress in frustration and Ian murmurs, “You already know what’s on the menu.”

“Well, you already know what I fucking like.” 

“I do.” Ian slides his hands down further into the PJs and looks up from kissing his way along Mickey’s chest. “Roll over.” 

_Yes, sir._

***

**WEEK ONE**

Mickey is sick. 

It’s just a fucking head cold, but he feels rotten. Bad enough that he goes to bed around eight, before Ian is even home, and falls asleep with the light on. He wakes up briefly when Ian comes to bed, turning off the overhead light, but then flipping on the desk lamp and asking too many fucking questions. He’s just congested and his sinuses hurt. It isn't a big deal, but… 

But. He's mad about it. Life had been complete bullshit ever since the wedding. Like he got this one day—and not even the whole day, because it had been pretty fucking terrible before they figured out shit with the Polish Doll. But he got that one _afternoon_ where he improbably walked down an aisle to meet a euphoric Ian at the altar. He got to say his vows and hear Ian say his. They promised each other, in public and with full sincerely, that they had each other’s backs for life. Then they drank, danced and drove to their honeymoon in a truly kickass car… and started their happy-ever-after in a hail of bullets. 

Which would have been bad enough, but it wasn’t his father’s last temper tantrum. Having failed to stop the wedding, he seemed to have decided he was just going to end the marriage, and that was fucking stressful. Going to work is stressful. Leaving Ian in any capacity is stressful. And now, courtesy of some random shopper, he is achy and miserable and he has to breathe through his mouth. 

It fucking sucks. 

He realizes Ian is still talking at him—has possibly even left and come back—and he sounds irritated. Mickey has zero patience for people having zero patience with him right now so he just grinds out a frustrated “fuck _off_.” 

“Pretty fucking on brand for you to be the worst patient possible, but I promise you will feel better if you take this, so sit the fuck up.” 

Oh. 

Well. Ok. Possibly he should maybe be paying attention. Mickey opens one eye to see Ian sitting by his feet, with a glass of water. “Just need to sleep it off.” 

“Don’t disagree. Sit up. I had to show ID and promise our first born to get this, so you better fucking take it.”

It’s cold medicine. It is the _good_ cold medicine. For just a hot second he worries he looks like Gollum when he lays eyes on the One Ring. 

“Where did you get that?" 

“Um. The drug store?” 

“No, I mean,” he shakes his head, which is a bad idea with the way he's feeling. "I checked the bathroom, I didn’t find any—“ 

“I went _out_ , Mickey. Just here, take the glass.” Ian pushes the water into Mickey's hands and he's honestly having trouble doing the math on this.

“Just, like, _now_?” 

“Of course now. Will you just take the pills? God damn.” 

Ian is popping two pills out of the blister pack and into Mickey’s other hand. And he’s not _going_ to cry. But he _could_ cry. Instead he just does what he’s told and washes them down with the water. Ian helpfully—attentively—takes the glass from him the moment he’s done, setting it on the dresser edge where Mickey can reach it. 

“You look like shit.” 

“Thanks.” 

“You feel bad?” 

It’s an annoying question, but Ian asks it with enormous gentleness that makes Mickey want to crawl into his lap. Instead he just nods. He closes his fists around their comforter, then releases and repeats the action a few times. Like he’s nervous kid or something. Ian smiles at him and leans across the bedclothes to press a toothpaste-scented kiss against his forehead. Jesus. 

“You’re gonna get sick.” 

“Pretty sure I already have all of your germs, Mick. I’m just a few days behind,” Ian murmurs, as he carefully pulls off his walking boot. Then he stretches, drags off his sweatshirt, and tosses it aside before maneuvering himself into bed beside Mickey. “You wanna get the light?” 

“Uh. Yeah.” He feels weird. Awkward. Like they didn’t do this every single night. His fingers are numb as he flips the light off and he tries to ignore it as he moves to lie down. Before he can even do that, Ian reaches out and is pulls him across the bed. And Mickey just goes. He lets Ian gather him into his arms, and guide his head down onto his chest. He wraps his arms around Ian’s waist and just sinks into him. 

He’s already beginning to feel pleasantly floaty as Ian starts to drag his fingers up and down Mickey’s spine in a gesture that he finds incredibly soothing. No one has ever done this for him. No one. Not even Ian. He must have gotten sick before when Gallagher was around, but he can’t really remember it. He might have been cranky. They might not have been living together. Ian might have been spinning out at the speed of light. Whatever the situation, for some reason this is the first time he can remember anyone ever giving much of a shit about the fact that he doesn’t feel good. 

This shouldn't be a surprise. Ian had also been the first person to ever spoon him, something he was now _very_ fond of. He had cleaned his wounds on several occasions. He has kissed him when he was literally covered in blood. But this felt like a new level of intimacy. In the house he grew up in, head colds were treated like leprosy. If you were sick, you were supposed to stay the fuck away. If Ian had gotten sick first—like contagious sick—Mickey might have reacted that way, just because that was the script he had. Though when he thinks of Ian all congested and miserable, he guesses his instinct isn’t that far off from Ian’s. He’d want to take care of him. 

And maybe it’s the pills, but he feels almost delirious with love and gratitude. Like _“I could write a fucking sonnet about this”_ levels of adoration. The worst thing about being alone when you’re sick is trying to figure out how the fuck you’re going to get the stuff you need to get better when you feel like a sentient grease stain. To just have that solved, like it was nothing… 

“Thanks." Mickey is a little surprised to find that he still possesses the power of speech.

“For what?" 

__“Going out. Getting me medicine and shit."_ _

__“My baby will always get cold meds."_ _

__And that's a first, too, because Mickey has been staunchly against that particular endearment since he was a toddler. And there is more than a small chance that Ian is saying it as a joke… Making fun of the guys they know who call their boyfriends “baby", “honey”, “sweetheart”, which has never been their style. But he doesn't hate it. Particularly the possessive part of the phrase. My baby. Mine._ _

__“You still glad we did this?"_ _

__“Did what?”_ _

__“Got married.”_ _

__“Mickey, it’s been, like, a week.”_ _

__“And someone’s already tried to kill us a couple of times now.”_ _

__“Oh. Yeah. I don't love that part.” He taps his fingers lightly against Mickey’s shoulder. “I do love you, though”_ _

__Mickey groans, though with near delight. “Christ. You're so cheesy.”_ _

__“My baby will always get cheesy lines.” He turns his head and presses a few firm kisses against Mickey’s temple. “Because I love him.”_ _

__Now Mickey is grinning so hard it very nearly hurts. “Always, huh?”_ _

__“Always.”_ _

__***_ _

__If you are going to live with your husband’s entire family during your first year of marriage—and if circumstances require that almost all them be home every single fucking minute of the day—there were worst ways to prepare for that than prison. It had taught him how to have truly incredible sex in near silence._ _

__Because holy shit, men of any less mettle would be banished to the trailer for certain._ _

__Mickey is so blissed out that, opening his eyes, it almost feels as if he's coming to. He can distantly remember that there were times today when he felt anxious, worried, irritated and frustrated, but they’ve all been covered in a heavy blanket of good feeling that has sunk into the marrow of his bones._ _

__“Jesus,” he mutters thickly, realizing he is lying under their comforter, with his face pressed into Ian’s chest, suggesting a number of things have happened since his brain went off line._ _

__“Satisfied?”_ _

__“For now.” His snark is significantly hampered by how dreamy his voice sounds._ _

__“You think maybe there might be some value in abstaining for a week?”_ _

__“Fuck you,” Mickey slurs. “You can test that theory with someone else.”_ _

__“Really? This marriage have some open door policy I don’t know ab—OW. Fucker!”_ _

__Ian swears on the heels of Mickey finding he does have the strength to pinch his side, just under his rib cage. He circles his fingers around the spot soothingly. “Not funny.”_ _

__“No,” Ian sighs and presses his lips to Mickey’s forehead. “Not funny.”_ _

__Mickey stretches, sighs and snuggles closer. He could drift off to sleep now, and it occurs to him that, given how wrecked Ian was for most of the morning, he should probably pay some little attention to how he’s doing. When he lifts his head, Ian looks over at him. He’s alert, but mellow. Ian leans in and brushes a couple of soft kisses against Mickey’s slack mouth and then lies back into the pillow._ _

__“You’ve had a remarkable recovery,” Mickey murmurs._ _

__“Hmm?”_ _

__“From this morning.”_ _

__“Oh. Yeah. I guess I needed some sleep. I was kinda running on empty.”_ _

__“Bad fucking idea.”_ _

__“I know. But sometimes I don’t aways realize I’m getting shitty sleep until I can finally relax for real.”_ _

__“That what happened last night?”_ _

__“After we talked? Yeah. I felt like I’d been fucking drugged. Worrying so much about all that shit and just realizing it was pointless. And maybe I should just go to sleep.”_ _

__Mickey turns that around in his head a few times. “So it helped. What I said.”_ _

__“Yeah. Pretty much always does.”_ _

__Mickey snorted in disbelief before he could even fully consider what Ian had said. Just a knee-jerk _fuck you, I don’t help.__ _

__“No, it did,” Ian protests. “There’s just some stuff I don’t like about being me. You know? And sometimes I get so in my head about it, I forget it’s not a universal opinion. It can be hard to break out of it. But… All I gotta do, really, is spend some time with you. And remember that you don’t care.” Ian exhaled. “And that I’m fucking lucky. I’m lucky to be with you and I shouldn’t waste my time thinking about all this shit.” Mickey stays still and considers this while Ian slowly strokes circles on his back. “You were right. About getting married. I was worried I’d fuck things up for you, and you wouldn’t have an easy out.”_ _

__“Fucking never wanted out of this, Ian.”_ _

__“I know,” Ian turns his head and brushes his nose along Mickey’s hairline. “But when I’m really stuck, that part doesn’t make sense to me. Because I’d fucking leave this behind if I could. I’d 100% walk out on it if it was an option.”_ _

__“You fucking wouldn’t. Not if it was someone else.”_ _

__“But it isn’t someone else, Mick. It’s me.” He signs. “I wanted you to want to be here. Not like you _have_ to be here. But I just had no fucking clue how marriage would change us. I didn’t really get how it would give me a new perspective. I’ve liked feeling like… I don’t know. Like I’m finally getting to take care of you a bit. Like if I get a good job, it’s not just good for me, it’s good for us. It makes me proud to make a decent living for you. I like having that focus. You know, remembering what I promised, keeping my vows. I get satisfaction out of that. And I haven’t felt anything like it in a long time. But then, when this happened, I think I lost sight of the part where you’re not, like, _helpless_. I got really intense about keeping you safe, and forgot that it didn’t mean I had to balance every single fucking thing myself.”_ _

__“Yeah, you weren’t the only one making promises that day.”_ _

__“I know.” Mickey gets a light kiss for that. “I remember.”_ _

__And now that feeling from the morning is sneaking back, trying to fight its way out from under the blanket. And maybe they really are made for each other, because he’s got his own version of this thing. The question, deep down, of why would Ian stay? Why does Ian want him?_ _

__He knows why he wants this. Because he fucking loves being with Ian. All of it. Just all of it. He likes waking up to that stupid alarm. Harassing Ian about eating, showering, taking his meds. He likes bringing him breakfast when he doesn’t feel great, and he likes Ian curling up into him when he’s looking for comfort. He likes Ian’s hands, firm and strong, on his body. He likes that smile directed at him and only him. He likes kissing Ian like the world is about to burn down, and he likes kissing him like it’s fucking nothing. And he liked seeing the tears in his eyes last night — not because he wants him to hurt, but because he wants him to care like he cares. Mickey feels his love for Ian thrashing inside of him all the time and he has no idea what it’s like for Ian. He never has._ _

__But he knows his husband loves him. He _knows_ that. And he’s at least been smart enough not to look that gift horse in the mouth. He wanted Ian too much to ask a lot of questions. And now they have tied their lives together and Mickey is so happy and he wants, almost needs, Ian to be happy like this. Nothing else feels safe. _ _

__Mickey is used not being safe, though, so the idea that he has this—that last night his husband was hanging on to him and breathlessly pouring out all these feelings because he feels the same way about Mickey as Mickey feels about him—feels impossible._ _

__But it isn’t. It’s all right there. All the things that Ian has given him since they got married, the stuff he didn't even think about: cold meds, health insurance, his trust and his time, a Christmas that Mickey could think about and smile for the very first time in his whole god damned life… He has what he wants. He has Ian, body and soul, and Ian is just as freaked out at the idea of that ending as he is._ _

__Ian isn’t going anywhere. He really isn’t. And, for some fucked up reason, that idea is panic-inducing._ _

__“I don’t know if I’m good at this.” Mickey blames the panic for that fact that he even let that out of his fucking mouth. Jesus._ _

__“Good at what.”_ _

__“This. Being fucking happy or whatever.”_ _

__“You’re happy?” Mickey shoots him an irritated look. “I’m not joking! It can be hard to tell sometimes. Things have been pretty fucked lately. ”_ _

__“Like big picture… Yeah. I guess I’m happy. Being married and shit.”_ _

__“That’s good. Cause you’re kinda stuck with me.”_ _

__God, and he wants to be._ _

__“I just… I don’t know. I just feel like it can’t last. Like something gonna go wrong.”_ _

__“There’s literally a global catastrophe happening right now.”_ _

__“No, like something immediate. Something with us. Like it can't stay this way. ”_ _

__“You worried I'm gonna get sick again?”_ _

__“No. You always go right to that. No. Not that. Not… Just bad fucking luck, Ian.” He groans. “Just something. It’s always fucking something.”_ _

__They lie in silence a good while after he says that and Mickey’s stomach just twists and twists, because now he’s fucking done it. He’s said the thing he’s worried about and Ian is going to agree with him. Fucked for life._ _

__But when Ian speaks again, he sounds contemplative, more than anything._ _

__“So let shit go wrong. What’s new with that?”_ _

__Fucking nothing is new with that. “We didn’t always stay together when things went wrong.”_ _

__“Ok, but… We were never in a good situation, Mick. We were kids and it was fucked. But I was always happy when you were around. I never wanted us to split.”_ _

__That’s just not fucking true and Mickey doesn’t even have to say it, because Ian continues._ _

__“You broke my heart. It wasn’t your fault and I know I returned the favour, but you know. A lot of the time I literally wasn’t thinking straight. I was just in fucking agony and I wanted it to stop. Some of the stuff that happened to us just wasn’t fair.”_ _

__“Since when have you expected things to be fair?”_ _

__“Never. That’s the thing. We never got fair. We got gay in South Side. We got your fucking father and my bipolar and just some epically bad shit. Some of it just because we were existing. Look, when I was 15, I wanted to believe I could love you so much that nothing else would matter. And I got to find out, the real fucking hard way, what you already knew—which was that I couldn’t. But the thing I always knew, after, was that I could love someone like that. After we got together, I always knew that about myself and it made me happy. In some small way. Even when everything sucked, and I was fucking miserable and thinking I’d never see you again. I guess I still had that little bit of hope in me. I got that from loving you. And it got me through some shit.”_ _

__Mickey didn’t cry at his wedding or when he got sentenced or when Ian got released. But this catches him by the God damn throat. Because he knows what Ian means. He never thought about it as something transferable, something inside him. But knowing that he could have what he had with Ian, knowing it even existed, had pulled him through a lot. It still was. He’s always seen it as something he needed. It’s never fucking occurred to him that it was something he gave anyone. Or something they gave each other._ _

__Mickey turns his face into Ian’s chest and tries to steady his breathing. He knows Ian can feel his tears, but there’s no comment. Because Ian fucking knows him. Eventually Mickey lifts his head and gives Ian an unsteady smile. Ian brushes at the tear tracks with this thumb, then slides his fingers into Mickey’s hair to cup the back of his head. He smiles at Mickey. It’s warm and loving and Mickey can see the truth of everything Ian is saying because he looks happy. Even if he wasn't last night, this morning he’s happy and he says that Mickey is the reason for that._ _

__“Jesus Christ,” Mickey mutters, wiping impatiently as new tears spring to his eyes._ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__“So this is just fucking it. This is being married. Just lots of bullshit and we try to make each other happy in the meantime.”_ _

__“I mean, I hope so. I feel like I can do this”_ _

__“Ok, good. Because I”m not going anywhere.”_ _

__“Promise?”_ _

__Mickey’s eyes bounce from Ian’s eyes to his lips, his cheekbone, his left ear. He studies his face. The softening smile. Feels the fingers still playing with his hair._ _

__“I don’t have to promise. I made a fucking vow.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: WOW this one took me a long time. I hope that all the little vignettes eventually added up to something that had a point. Mostly I’m just in love with the idea of these guys being in love. Maybe you can tell. 
> 
> One of the early quarantine experience I found most interesting is what doesn’t sell — like going to the grocery store and there is NO pasta, other than lasagna noodles and the whole wheat penne. The soup aisle is totally blown out, except for $7 cans of lobster bisque. I have no idea, though, if coconut water was easy to get. 
> 
> This story probably stands alone pretty well, but it also might make more sense if you read the part one. It’s much shorter. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and replied (and left kudos) to Risk, because it was incredibly encouraging and I probably would not post this without you. Particular thanks to Gallavictorious on Tumblr for engaging a conversation about Ian’s job which saved me from making a really dumb mistake. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Come find me at [Tumblr](https://dreamylyfe-x.tumblr.com/) if you’d like.


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